


Nothing Gold

by sunken_standard



Series: So What Was Your Last Girlfriend Like? [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, PWP, tst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-19
Updated: 2017-09-19
Packaged: 2018-12-31 10:43:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12130737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunken_standard/pseuds/sunken_standard
Summary: Everything had to be perfect, he thought while in the cab from Whitehall to Islington.Takeaway from Angelo's, her second-favourite ice cream (the Waitrose closest to her flat was showing the first as unavailable on their website) for dessert, a quiet night in together.  Romantic, but nothing over-the-top or declarative.  No flowers or candles or soft music or anything so cliche.  Just nice, homely, comfortable.  The kind of things he would do for her just because, if she were his girlfriend.She couldn't ever be, of course; it was just too dangerous for her.  Not that she'd probably ever want to be, anyway; Mary had to have told her everything.  He could try to pretend, though, if only for one night.





	Nothing Gold

**Author's Note:**

> The fifth part of The Girlfriend series. Like the rest of them, the first half covers the last half of the previous installment ([ _His Plan Was Stupid_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11029449)); the second half is set about halfway through TST.
> 
> Beta'd as always by madder_badder, who had her work cut out for her this time.

By his third day in prison, he knew he was getting out. No lawyers, no visitors, not even a psychiatrist to do a suicide risk evaluation; they weren't planning on keeping him. He could only speculate as to what Mycroft was negotiating, but he knew it wasn't going to be good. Every hour that passed meant his punishment grew worse by an order of magnitude.

 

He had to sleep sometime, he knew; he'd already begun to have auditory hallucinations, he was having trouble regulating his body temperature, and his urine was darker than it should be despite keeping adequately hydrated. He didn't want to sleep, afraid of what was waiting for him in dreams.

 

He stayed out of his Mind Palace entirely, only circling the topmost layer of his consciousness with Fibonacci and pi and balancing chemical equations, word games and endless lists of nonsense, running through the fingering of every piece of music he knew, then giving in and doing the bowing because fuck it, let the guards think he'd cracked, let them drug him into oblivion, at least he wouldn't _dream_.

 

He did sleep, eventually, halfway through the fourth day. The guards woke him up to shuffle him to the shower room, watched every glorious moment of washing his armpits, his bollocks, his arsehole, cuffed and manacled him and shuffled him back. He managed to swallow one third of a piece of bread from the cheese sandwich on his tray and ended up passing out again from the resultant hyperglycemia.

 

He dreamt and it was terrible; he woke up to gunshots ringing in his ears. He curled up on his bunk and willed himself not to cry. Never show weakness.

 

He didn't want to think of Molly, didn't want to bring her into this foul place but, as on the outside, he couldn't deny himself her for very long. He replayed and remixed the two times they'd made love, buried himself in the memory of the warmth, the closeness; he imagined all the things he would do with her if he ever did get out. Assuming she would even want to see him. Molly could be as morally grey as anyone, at least in the abstract. Knowing that her lover had made the conscious choice to end another human life might be one step too far for even her.

 

He buried those thoughts as deep as he could, pushing them to places where even the sneering Moriarty in his mind couldn't get to them. He retreated into daydreams of what-ifs and could-have-beens and other lives entirely; he took her to places he'd been in his travels and places he had yet to see, walked with her on black sand beaches and through fresh snow and under sakura trees as their blossoms rained down around them. He lay with his head in her lap or her spooned up behind him, holding him like he was something worth protecting.

 

On the fifth day he was taken to an office and cuffed to a rail on the desk; he was handed a greasy telephone receiver before the owner of the office left the room.

 

Mycroft, of course. Released tomorrow; supervised trip to Baker Street and then straight to the airfield. Eastern Europe, six months. _That_ assignment.

 

Time to pay the piper.

 

*

 

He slipped the worn copy of _Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque_ into his carry-on; hidden neatly between the third and fourth page of 'Berenice' was a plastic baggie tucked inside a scrap of paper, the only thing he had left in the flat stronger than an aspirin. Mycroft always missed something; Sherlock was never certain if it was intentional. Lesser of two evils (a known quantity of a known substance vs. whatever the first dealer he came across had on him) or a shameful reminder of the weakness of Sherlock's character, he could never decide what his brother's motivation might be if it truly wasn't an oversight.

 

He dosed his own coffee in the car on the way to the airfield, chugged it like it was last orders. He'd be peaking just after take-off; how appropriate.

 

*

 

A second chance. The how and the why didn't matter; the fact remained that he'd been granted a stay of execution. He was glad he hadn't been able to bring himself to say all the things to John that he'd wanted to ( _thank you for being the truest friend I've ever had, you're more than a friend, you're my brother and I love you so very much it hurts to think about sometimes because without you I never would have become who I am, I'm sorry I won't live to see you become a father because—for all your damage—you're one of the kindest and most loving men I've ever known and you'll be wonderful, I'm sorry I wasn't a better friend to you all the times I should have been_ ), everything could go on as normal.

 

Well, almost everything. He supposed it took a mild OD to make him realize just how deeply his feelings ran when it came to Molly, the complexity of them and their progression. Molly had never been a Woman to him, simply a female-shaped person; Women were complicated and dangerous and _other_. Then she suddenly was a Woman, but his brain had gone one step further and classified her as a Bride, which made his heart pound in a way that had nothing to do with the drugs in his system.

 

A Bride was greater than love, a Bride was greater than sex. A Bride was other half, yin to his yang. A Bride was giving and receiving in equal measure, sharing. A Bride was most certainly entanglement, the kind one could never slip free from.

 

And, above all, if Moriarty truly was back, a Bride was not something he could ever allow Molly to become; a Bride was something that would destroy him utterly to lose.

 

*

 

Everything had to be perfect, he thought while in the cab from Whitehall to Islington.

 

Takeaway from Angelo's, her second-favourite ice cream (the Waitrose closest to her flat was showing the first as unavailable on their website) for dessert, a quiet night in together. Romantic, but nothing over-the-top or declarative. No flowers or candles or soft music or anything so cliche. Just nice, homely, comfortable. The kind of things he would do for her just because, if she were his girlfriend.

 

She couldn't ever be, of course; it was just too dangerous for her. Not that she'd probably ever want to be, anyway; Mary had to have told her everything. He could try to pretend, though, if only for one night.

 

There had to be a balance point somewhere, the apex of _together_ and _safe_ ; safe as in out of The Game (and oh, it was back on, something was coming for him and it would be big and ugly and he would be ready for it), safe as in somewhere to keep his heart so it was protected, together as in never alone again, together as in something being more than the sum of its parts...

 

Sherlock blinked, shook his head. He fucking hated coming down, hated it even more when he was running a week with hardly any sleep and nothing to bring him back up. Clean? Ha. Mycroft could make a nun lie with just the right words and the right look.

 

He showered while he waited for his deliveries and put on his pyjamas even though it was only two in the afternoon. He thought about having a quick wank but decided against it; he didn't want to run the risk of not being able to perform later, even though he was already half-hard with the anticipation of feeling Molly's skin under his hands, her body moving against his, her mouth and her voice and just her. If she would let him.

 

Big 'if', he reminded himself.

 

He wandered her flat, picking things up and putting them back down. He was exhausted but he wouldn't be able to sleep. He could take another one of her tablets, but eventually she'd realize he'd dipped into them and be cross; he couldn't risk it. Emergencies only.

 

He did have a bit of a nap after winding down, his mind finally giving in to his body. He woke up craving; he ate two of the chocolate bars from the grocery delivery and then went for the ice cream, as close as he was going to get to the chemistry of what his brain was begging for. A cigarette would be perfect, but after a week of cold turkey he didn't want to start again. Silver lining there, he supposed.

 

And then there was Molly, trudging past like she had a sledge full of concrete blocks chained to her. He smiled, happy to see her and hoping it would be enough to lift some of that weight; apparently that wasn't the case. He wasn't going to give up. If he pretended everything was normal—better than normal, good—maybe he could still pull her out of it and they could have their perfect evening together.

 

He put the ice cream away and found her upstairs; he slipped his arms around her waist and kissed her neck, thinking this would be the kind of thing he'd do anytime if they were what they couldn't be. He was playing a dangerous game with himself and with her but, just like the junkie he was, he couldn't stop himself.

 

"What are you doing?" she asked, tense.

 

"Fairly obvious, I should think. I did just get out of prison this morning," he said, kissing up her neck. Only the barest trace of the morgue and the lab clung to her skin. "I've heard this is rather the done thing."

 

"Really? And what else might you have done since then?"

 

He was expecting it, of course he was, but it stung all the same. "So you've been talking to Mary."

 

They were friends, after all; he was sure Mary had her suspicions about them, but wisely kept them to herself. He was fairly certain Molly hadn't said anything, either; she was never one to kiss and tell. Well, aside from the times she'd paraded a boyfriend in front of him to rub it in that he could be in the other man's place if he only grew a pair (no, that really wasn't fair and not why she'd done it, he knew her better than that, or so he liked to think).

 

"She texted me. Twice, actually, which was more than you were bothered to do."

 

"I... didn't know what to say." He still didn't. He couldn't admit that he was scared to die alone, he couldn't admit he wasn't sorry for what he'd done but hated himself for what he'd become, he couldn't bear the thought of her rejection being the last thing he had of her.

 

"No, what was there to say, anyway? 'Hi Molly, not going to be around for a while, but I'm okay,' probably wouldn't have covered it," she said shortly.

 

"So 'Put a bullet in a man's brain, went to jail but out now, fancy a quickie before I get shipped of to die in some former Soviet hellhole' would have been more acceptable?" he asked, annoyed by the fact that she wasn't bothering to listen to him, wasn't _seeing_ him like she always did.

 

"Just a goodbye would have been nice. Then again, I'm not a Watson, so why would you say goodbye to me?" She was hurt, of course she was. She still didn't _get_ it.

 

"I didn't know they were going to be at the airfield. Mycroft arranged it. Were it up to me, they wouldn't have been there either," he said, trying to justify it.

 

He couldn't explain it to her, couldn't tell her what it would have done to him to see her and _know_ it was the last time, what it would have meant for him to carry that weight until the day he made whatever the mistake would be that led to his death. It was bad enough that he would have had that memory of John and Mary, the last words ever spoken to his two dearest friends lies. And if she'd seen through him, seen the lies for what they were, he couldn't have left her knowing he was going to die and she was powerless to stop it. It wouldn't have been like after his suicide; they both knew then that he'd come back.

 

"Goodbyes are meaningless," he added. They meant too much, he thought.

 

"Wouldn't have been meaningless to me," she said, pushing past him into the hallway without looking at him.

 

He wasn't ready to be dismissed; she had to understand.

 

"Would it have been better for you to spend the next six months wondering how I was faring, why I wasn't in contact, only to find out my luck had finally run out and they were shipping home whatever was left of me in a body bag, provided there was even a body _to_ return? Mycroft was sending me off to _die_. My 'assignment' was a _death sentence_. Have you stopped to think maybe I wasn't exactly thrilled with the prospect and didn't want that to be your last memory of me?" he said, following her to the bathroom. So much for keeping her in the dark about it, even if it was moot now. Instead of placating her, it only made her angrier.

 

"So that's why you OD'd on the plane? Thought you'd just cut to the chase?"

 

 _Goddamn Mary_ , he thought. She didn't have to tell Molly about that, she had no right. " _No_ _,_ " he said, letting her know just how stupid that thought was. "I may have slightly miscalculated the dosage, but it was hardly an OD. Controlled usage—"

 

"That bullshit doesn't work on anybody, Sherlock. Are you high now?" she cut him off harshly.

 

"I don't come here when I'm high," he said quietly, looking away because he couldn't look her in the eye while lying.

 

"Oh really?" She knew, of course she did, and he was sure she wasn't counting the period after his surgery when he still had legal prescriptions for legitimate pain management.

 

Fine. She wanted the truth? She could have it and do with it what she would. "Not technically. It was only once and I was coming down."

 

"I bloody knew it." Her lip twitched with disgust, or maybe contempt. Both.

 

"What was your excuse, then?" he said, hurt by her disappointment in him. It was the closest they'd come to talking about that night, or anything that had happened after. Maybe it was time to just get it all out in the open, to find out what had made her do it in the first place.

 

For a split-second she looked to be on the verge of replying; instead she pursed her lips and shook her head, effectively ending the conversation with her silence.

 

He stared her down anyway, willing her to say something. Negate it, call it a mistake, tell him she regretted ever letting him into her bed in the first place; he could see all of it playing across her face. Did she think he'd used her? Gone to her when one woman hadn't been enough? She knew he hadn't slept with Janine, he'd told her that and she'd looked... disappointed, almost, a reaction he still didn't understand.

 

If it were really true that she thought he'd used her, she wouldn't have slept with him. Twice. What they'd done hadn't been mindless fucking, sex for the sake of it; it had been something more. For her too, he was sure of it. Just remembering it was enough to soften the edges of whatever he was feeling, the frustration and anger and hurt and annoyance.

 

This was _Molly_. He didn't want to be at odds with her.

 

"Why did you come here, Sherlock?" she asked, her tone hushed. There was no exasperation in it; she was looking for something. Reassurance of some kind, maybe.

 

"Because I wanted to see you," he answered. There was so much more to it than that.

 

He needed to see her like he needed a lungful of air after being under water. Compulsion, addiction, whatever one wanted to call it; he hadn't seen her in two weeks and that was the longest he'd gone without being in her physical presence in over a year. He'd been through hell, yes, but a hell of his own making and he wanted the safety and comfort of her flat, he wanted to share the very simple joy of being alive and free with her. How could he begin to tell her any of that, though?

 

She got the oddest look on her face; was it sadness, longing? Hope? He didn't understand it.

 

"What about this thing with Moriarty, then?" she asked. She was changing the subject, which was probably for the best.

 

"Haven't the faintest idea. Initially I thought it might be Mycroft, he's clever enough and always has contingencies and I thought maybe he didn't want to live with my blood on his hands, but it's not him. Someone certainly wants my attention, though." It was all the explanation he had at the moment, vexing as that was.

 

"The timing does seem a bit coincidental, doesn't it? I mean, if it were connected to Magnussen, they would have had a week already. And if they were going for some big impact, why not wait til midnight? Or even tomorrow? Funny that it happened right when you were leaving."

 

He tried not to smile too widely; he loved it when anyone's brain was on the same track as his, but especially when it was _her_ brain. She was clever, and not just when it came to the medical bits. His heart sped up with the desire to kiss her right then, but it wasn't the right time.

 

"So where are you going to start?" There was a kind of acquiescence in her tone, almost resignation, but something else that let him know that she was still with him in whatever capacity he might need her. It made him warm inside.

 

"I'm going to wait. Well, more accurately, I'm going to collect data. All of it. Every quiver of the web." It was about all he could do until the new player made a move.

 

Molly's eyebrows rose in a way that clearly telegraphed she thought he was mad; he responded with a facial expression that said _yeah, basically_.

 

Her posture shifted into something a little looser, relaxed. Something in the twist of her lips said she was letting everything go for now; the relief of it was almost palpable. He didn't do well with sustained interpersonal tension. It made him anxious and irritable and he'd had enough of that of the past few weeks.

 

"What kind of ice cream did you bring?" she asked, her tone measured; her lips pursed as she looked up at him, giving the overall impression that her forgiveness hinged completely on the answer to that question.

 

It was the silliest thing, he thought. She looked absolutely adorable; he was almost giddy with the swell of fondness that overtook him. The urge to kiss her was overwhelming.

 

 _Might as well have a little fun with it_.

 

"Guess," he said before he could rethink it.

 

He swooped in and kissed her, and oh God how he'd wanted that; she responded immediately (automatically?) and it felt like they'd done it a million times before. He deepened the kiss, letting her taste the last traces of ice cream in his mouth. It was childish, but it was weirdly intimate, too.

 

She kissed back for a few moments before breaking away to laugh, giving him a gentle push.

 

"Well?" he asked, fighting the urge to laugh himself.

 

"Chocolate. Now let me have my shower, please."

 

"Half marks. Chocolate _Brownie_. And I could wash your back." He knew she wouldn't take him up on the offer, though he really wished she would. He'd showered with Janine and, though he'd tried to distance himself during the act, it had still been amazingly sensual. To do that with Molly would be something else entirely; a level of intimacy he probably wasn't ready for but craved all the same.

 

"Hoping I'll drop the soap?"

 

"Oh yes," he said, leering. He pushed down the image of the roundness of her arse presented to him in a way that begged to be taken like an animal; time enough for that later.

 

"Out," she said flatly, amusement sparkling in her eyes.

 

He sighed dramatically. "I tried," he lamented, letting it hang for a beat before darting in to peck her on the lips. He was regressing to who he'd been as a child, the clown, always trying to get a laugh, to endear himself through annoyance. He danced away before he could get the swat the look on her face promised.

 

It had been years, decades actually, since he'd allowed himself to be silly like that, to play; it was a side of himself he didn't show very often in any capacity because it was too open and vulnerable. There was no threat in it—rather the opposite—and he never wanted to be taken as anything but dangerous. His aloofness, the subtle promise of cruelty and mercilessness had kept him safe for all these years. He presented the image of himself as a sword, razor-sharp and polished to a shine; he couldn't remember the fires that had forged him because he'd chosen to forget, but ultimately he knew they'd made him stronger.

 

He was slowly coming to see he didn't need to be that way all the time, but old patterns of behaviour were hard to break. Funny, he thought, it was so much easier to let Molly see him when he was hurting (physically _or_ emotionally) than it was to let her see him happy, at ease. Why?

 

Rejection: fear thereof. Had to be. He'd had his pain mocked, salt rubbed in his wounds; he'd conditioned himself to bear down against it, push through it through sheer force of will. The pain was constant, always there, but a dead thing, a rotten thing, couldn't feel pain. At the very centre of him was something vibrant and vital and alive, the kind of light that could be snuffed out completely if he didn't protect what was left of it.

 

He wanted her to see all that, wanted to give it to her like a blood transfusion. He wanted her to take it, to accept it and care for it. He wanted her to hold that bit of him, that bright shining core, in higher esteem than he himself held it. He wanted her to feel for him what he felt for her; he wanted her to be just as terrified of the enormity of it as he was, but strong enough to take his hand and pull him through it. He wanted something more than romance, more than sex, more than companionship.

 

 _Ugh_ , he thought, sitting up from where he'd flopped on the sofa. Too many thoughts, too many feelings; apparently the nap and the chocolate hadn't been enough to chase off the after-effects of the comedown. His mood was all over the place and he needed to get it together, pretend everything was fine and normal and wonderful for Molly.

 

Work, he thought. Distraction. No time like the present. He retrieved her laptop from where it had been charging on the side table with his phone and got down to it. He needed to start compiling lists of phrases to monitor in the media and on the web (and also revise and expand _that_ watch-list), he needed to reorganize and reprioritize the assignments of the homeless network. Go back over old cases, unpack all the files from dismantling Moriarty's network and the time before. Unlikely he'd missed something, but the possibility certainly existed.

 

Had to be someone brand new, he was sure of it. Who were they, what did they want and why; he loved it. This time he had to be cleverer, quicker, better prepared. He couldn't afford another miscalculation like Magnussen, the stakes were too high. He couldn't dwell on that now, though, not when there was so much to do.

 

He let himself get lost in the work, but not too deeply that he couldn't stop if he wanted to; Molly helped by going through some of the backlog on the website. She needed a bit more prompting than John and they didn't quite become the well-oiled machine they were in her lab, but it was nice all the same.

 

He set his phone aside when the words began to blur together on the screen; he suspected he would need glasses one day soon, something he wasn't looking forward to. He settled back against the sofa and toyed with Molly's hair clip for something to do with his hands, the weight of her head comfortable against his thigh.

 

That was a problem, he thought. It was _too_ comfortable, too easy, the sort of thing he could get used to. All of it, the simple domesticity. Troubling thoughts.

 

A thousand shades of emotion swirled just under the surface of his consciousness, roiling like a witches' cauldron. He wanted things he couldn't let himself imagine or hope for, just the notion of which terrified him. He questioned his conviction that a romantic attachment had to be forever off the table; he would just have to try harder to keep her out of harm's way. He could keep her hidden, keep her safe, he just needed to be careful. He could have his cake and eat it, too; nothing would change outwardly, not even their closest friends would know.

 

Provided she still wanted that. Or anything approaching that. The drugs bothered her; she knew just as well as he that 'never again' was a lie he wouldn't even bother paying lip service to. He wondered if there was an ultimatum on the horizon. And the bigger thing, the thing that was right there every time he closed his eyes since Christmas Day. She hadn't said anything about that yet. Hadn't reacted at all when he'd mentioned it before; what did that mean?

 

"Does it bother you that I'm a murderer?" he asked bluntly.

 

He watched her through slitted eyes as she formulated her answer; at least she hadn't defaulted to an automatic denial. Whatever she said would be sincere, but then Molly was never anything but. At least, to him.

 

"Would it bother you if it didn't bother me?" She twisted to look at him.

 

He looked at her openly; there was no disgust or betrayal or judgement in her expression. He thought there should be. "Why aren't you?"

 

"Because I know you."

 

He really wished that were as true as she thought it was. She might have been able to see through some things, but she really didn't know him. Not the deepest, darkest parts. What would she think of him if he told her about Moriarty, the way he was always there, taunting and teasing and tempting him to slip, to fall, to sink into becoming _him_? What would she think of him if she knew he _missed_ him, his games and his brilliance and the way he'd been his perfect compliment?

 

And that was just the tip of the iceberg of how fucked up he truly was; he hope she never twigged to the actual depth of it.

 

"You don't."

 

"I know enough," she said. "You didn't like it and you didn't want to do it, but you had to. There are a lot of people that couldn't have done it. I don't think I could."

 

She didn't need to know that a very small part of him had wanted to do it. He'd always been curious what it would be like to kill, to be responsible for ending someone's existence. The truly frightening part was that it had been much easier than he'd ever imagined.

 

He turned his face to the ceiling because he didn't want her to actually see that in his eyes. "I didn't think I could, either. Now there's nothing to stop me from doing it again," he confessed without meaning to. No point in hiding the consequences, either. "I've dreamt about it every night. Sometimes it's just replaying it, other times it's someone else, somewhere else. Moriarty, my brother, John."

 

Molly was worryingly quiet; after a moment, she turned her body to face him, slipping her hand into his where it rested on his stomach. He couldn't look at her, but he knew she was looking at him.

 

"You're still a good person," she said. It was a simple statement of fact; he wondered if she said it to reassure herself as well as him.

 

He sighed, feeling so drained by all of it. "And what does that matter, if a good person does bad things?" he mused aloud.

 

"I don't know what to tell you. I wish I did," she said. "Maybe I'm not a good person for thinking you didn't do a bad thing. You gave quite a lot of people the best Christmas present they've ever got."

 

There wasn't much he could say to that. Molly was neither bloodthirsty nor bloodless; she was the most pragmatic person he'd ever met. She understood, at least, why he'd had to do it. Not only for Mary and John and the baby, but for the greater good.

 

He made a little noise to convey... something; a thank you for the absolution she granted when it wasn't deserved, appreciation of her loyalty, something even deeper. He kissed the back of her hand and resettled it over his heart; there was no other way to express what he was feeling. It was the most raw and open he'd been in a very long time; after the week he'd had and the stupidity of using on the plane, his defences were Swiss cheese.

 

He shouldn't say anything else. He should let the moment fade to something more distant, less dangerous for its intimacy. He didn't want to let it go, though; as alarming as it was to be known, it felt good, too. Its own kind of high, the emotional equivalent of the warm serenity of heroin as it tempered the rush from the coke in a speedball.

 

"I was ready to accept my punishment, you know. I could have gone rogue and Mycroft would have covered for me until I disappeared completely. I never would have been caught," he confessed. "I decided on the way to the airfield that I wouldn't do that, though. I would do what I was assigned and die for Queen and Country just as I was supposed to."

 

"So, suicide?"

 

He couldn't look at her, even though she was still watching him. "That's one way of looking at it, accurate as any other. I was glad you weren't with John and Mary. I didn't want you to see me. I didn't want to leave you with that." He felt the pressure begin to build behind his eyes and in the bridge of his nose; he'd already got close to crying once today and he certainly didn't want to do it now, in front of Molly.

 

He knew he'd said too much when he felt her fingers twitch in his grasp. He was an idiot.

 

"You're not feeling that way any more, right? Suicidal, I mean," she said, a note of wariness in her voice that he didn't like being there.

 

"No," he denied. It was true, mostly, though very few days went by that he didn't think about it. Knowing it was always an option was its own comfort; it wasn't something he could explain to anyone, especially her.

 

"If you ever do feel that way, you know you can come to me. I care about you and I don't want you to think you're alone. Okay?"

 

He'd heard that before from everyone else—John, Lestrade, his parents, his brother. It was rote, trite; they were all being sincere but they had no idea what they were actually saying. Trying to assuage a guilty conscience in advance. He didn't want to hear it from her, even if he didn't think it was the same.

 

He nodded anyway, wanting to get past that bit and just talk about something else.

 

She was on a roll, though, apparently. "Same thing with the drugs. I mean, I know you probably thought at that point that it didn't matter anyway, but it does matter. Your health, and your life... they matter to people, even if you think they don't."

 

Oh, he knew. He remembered the way she looked that day months ago; he'd never seen her that livid before and he hoped to never see it again. Or, at the very least, not to be the cause of it. Letting her slap him had been an act of defiance, his own kind of passive aggression. Part of him had revelled in the fact that he'd incensed her to the point of physical violence; he'd known she'd feel terrible about it later. It was the one tiny patch of moral high ground that he'd held, low as it was. He really could be a terrible person sometimes, especially when he was using. He wished he hadn't on the plane.

 

Molly's hand began to pull away and he thought she was going to get up and leave; maybe space, a breather, would be good for both of them. Instead, she turned her hand so they were palm-to-palm.

 

"I really am glad you're here tonight and that I don't have to be alone. I mean, I know it's only a day like any other, but it's nice to have someone to ring in the New Year with." She sounded sincere.

 

"You got invited to parties."

 

"Parties are draining. I mean, not all of them, sometimes they're alright, like last year at John and Mary's, but mostly they're just not fun."

 

He only remembered it as excruciating, too many too-loud people drinking too much. The highlights of the night were Molly telling him about one of her post-mortems from earlier in the week and a single text from The Woman wishing him a Happy New Year. It was a picture message, a champagne flute with a red lipstick print, the lights of a city from a penthouse view serving as the background. He never had figured out where she was that night.

 

He didn't want to think about her right then. "Mm," he agreed, then elaborated, "They asked me if I wanted to come round tonight. I declined."

 

"Do they know you're here?"

 

"Nobody does. Maybe Mycroft, if he's got his gremlins watching. Which he probably does because he thinks—well." He didn't need to finish the sentence.

 

They lapsed into silence; Molly laid her head on her arm and closed her eyes. He matched his breaths with hers, forcing himself to relax.

 

Molly twitched, falling asleep, then shifted. She pulled her hand from his grasp to stand, saying, "I can't decide if I want to watch the fireworks or just go to bed."

 

"I never watch it. Well, not on purpose."

 

"So you've watched it accidentally?" She stretched, scrunching her face into something utterly ridiculous and adorable. The mood had shifted, settled, reset.

 

"It's been on in the background at places I've been," he answered, sitting up. He would follow her to bed if she decided that was where she was headed; if not, he would probably get something to eat. "If being aware of it counts as watching," he added to clarify.

 

He looked up at her, ready to ask if she was going to watch tonight; she looked down at him with an odd expression that was a bit like fascination tinged with something soft and open.

 

 _She's lovely_ , he thought as she drew her fingertip over his jaw. He didn't realize he was moving until his hands were wrapped around her legs, just above the knee; in the next breath she leaned down and kissed him.

 

It was the first time she initiated a kiss between them; it was soft and sweet and finally, finally he felt something loosen that had been choking him since Christmas. He wanted to live in that moment forever, he thought. He pulled her closer, angling into the kiss, deepening it.

 

He lost track of time as they kissed; he made sure to pay attention to everything, every exhalation and catch of lips. He needed to remember all of it. The weight and the warmth of her as she settled on his lap, the softness of her skin under his restless fingertips, the way her own fingers carded through his hair and caressed his jaw, his neck—he needed a record of this in the event that he'd never have it again.

 

There was no urgency to it; the arousal was a slow, shivery thing that was secondary to the intimacy of touch. He'd had an inkling it could be like this, he'd read enough poetry and florid prose in his lifetime to at least comprehend it, but he never instinctively understood it as he did right then.

 

To think, he had been afraid of this for so long. Afraid it would change him, ruin him, diminish him. He was an idiot. It took almost losing her forever, almost losing his life (again) to fully understand that he'd been stupid to fight it for this long. It was a war he must lose, his mind had told him as much and it really wasn't any kind of defeat at all.

 

Her fingertips grazed his scar and he shivered, the sensation unpleasant. She mumbled an apology and began to pull away, but he didn't want that; he pressed her palm flat against the scar. He had to let her know why it was important; the scar was a reminder of his hubris, but it was more. It was a reminder that, as long as he was still alive, there were always second chances.

 

"When I was shot, you were the first person I thought of. You told me which way to fall. You always save me," he said, pressing kisses into her neck. He had no other way of letting her know the trust he placed in her, of just how very important she was to him.

 

He could feel her pulse under his lips; her heart was racing. She rubbed herself against him, found his mouth again and kissed him in a way that told him she wanted to move things along, _now_ , but he wasn't ready for that just yet. He had to make sure she _understood_ , that she could feel what he was feeling; he had to know that she knew this wasn't just about sex and it never had been, never could be. Not for him, not with _her_.

 

Molly was relentless, though, demanding; she was in control. "I want you," she whispered, going for the ties of his pyjamas.

 

He never realized just how much that was something he'd been waiting to hear; she _wanted_ him. _All_ of him—his hands, his mouth, his cock, but more than just his body. _Him_. After everything he'd said tonight, all he'd confessed, the fact that she still wanted this... He pulled her closer, kissed her more deeply, held her as tightly as he dared.

 

All too soon she tried to pull away; he knew it was necessary to move things along, but he didn't want to stop even for a second. He let her go only enough to strip her from her pyjamas and pants, unable to keep his mouth off her. He wanted to consume her. Probably more to it than that, some Freudian oral fixation or some nonsense that didn't warrant examination.

 

And then he was naked and she was naked and climbing back into his lap; her delicate hand took his cock in a sure and steady grip and he was reminded of that first time all those months before. He wondered if she liked that, if she wanted to watch herself getting him off; he was fine with that some other time, but he really, really wanted to be inside her again, needed that connection.

 

It took ages, but he finally found the condom he'd slipped into his dressing gown pocket; thank God for his own foresight, he thought as he handed it to her. He only had the one and he didn't want to botch its application. Part of him was hoping _she_ would, or she'd decide to go without again; maybe she'd even let him finish inside. That would be stupid and dangerous no matter what time of the month it was and, romanticism aside, he wasn't ready to face any of the possible unintended consequences. Especially not now, with so much looming and unknown.

 

He watched as she rolled the condom over him; there was something incredibly erotic about the image of her smaller hand on his cock. It was juvenile, but it made him feel bigger, more masculine in such an abhorrently primal way.

 

She moved forward and held him steady with one hand while using his shoulder for balance with the other, taking him in slowly, unrelentingly. She rocked her hips gently, rotating them; he really hated the condom because he wanted to feel every slide and clench of her. At least he would last longer this way as she found her own pleasure; he touched every inch of skin he could reach with his hands, his mouth, learning her. She gasped and arched against him, tightening around his cock when he drew her nipple into his mouth.

 

She pulled away from him after a few moments and he wondered if he'd done something wrong until she began to move; he leaned back and shifted his hips so he could penetrate her as deeply as possible in that position. What's more, now that he had the opportunity, he wanted to watch. Everything—the play of stomach muscles under her skin, the bounce of her breasts, the strain of the cords of her neck, the way his fingers dug into the softness of her hips, the glimpses of his own cock disappearing into her as she rode him. It was overwhelming and he'd never remember every little detail, but he was doing his level best to burn as much of it to disk as he could while had the presence of mind to do so.

 

She leaned forward and kissed him then, and he'd never felt so _desired_. Funny thing—something he'd never heard other men talking about, had never seen anything in passing addressing while crawling the web doing research for this or that—the male need to be desired. He'd never felt it before; it was more than simple lust. He was afraid to think it might be closer to love. Both of those things, neither. It pulled something out of him, a softer form of desire than hers; he wanted to give her everything. Lay the world at her feet. Lay _himself_ at her feet, bare every last thing to her and let her have it all, sacred and profane alike. He wanted to please her, to adore her and have it accepted, to have her want that from him; it was such a complex set of emotions.

 

He used his hands and his lips to convey what he couldn't let words get in the way of. She braced herself on the back of the sofa and leaned harder into him; her soft moans and heavy breaths drove him wild. He wanted to let her maintain control, let her take him as hers without reservation, but he couldn't help himself. He thrust up to meet her, finally fucking her in earnest, giving what he wanted her to have and taking everything she couldn't keep to herself.

 

She worked her hand between them and he didn't think he'd be able to last through much of that; long-buried voyeuristic fantasies of watching her bring herself off sprang to the fore. Even if he couldn't see, there was something about simply knowing she was doing it that was more than he could take.

 

"Are you close?"

 

He struggled to speak through the fog in his brain. "Mm. Very close. Are you?"

 

He wanted her to come, he wanted to feel it, but if she didn't now he would just make sure she did after, with his fingers or flipping her onto her back and finally using his mouth, licking and sucking and fucking her with his tongue—

 

"Yeah," Molly breathed. "I want to make you come. I want you to come inside me, just like this, God you feel so good—"

 

It was what he needed; permission. He gripped her hips harder, held her down while he fucked up into her, her entire body taut like a bowstring as his cock pulsed (God how he wished there were no condom and he was filling her, his come actually inside her body). He felt her moving against him and then the tight, fast clench of her own orgasm, lasting long after his was over. He pulled back to watch her and of course the face she made was ridiculous, but he could see the intensity of the sensations she was experiencing and it was marvellous.

 

She slumped against him, resting her full weight on him for just a few moments longer as she kissed him; he wanted to hold her there forever. He reluctantly let her go when she moved off of him to sprawl on the sofa like a rag doll. She watched him peel off the condom and fumble it into the wrapper, trying not to get semen everywhere; it was a weirdly intimate thing, he thought, to be observed like that and he couldn't place why. He dismissed the thought and hovered over her, simply taking her in for a moment before leaning in to kiss her.

 

Molly draped her arms around his neck and kissed him back; there was a kind of contentedness to it that was exactly what he'd needed for—well, pretty much forever. If the angle weren't so awkward, he'd lower himself on top of her, feel her skin-to-skin. As it was, his neck and back were already beginning to protest and he found himself with a sudden craving for something else—cigarettes or something harder, food, water, _something_ ; it was a feeling of _want_ and _more_ and it pulled him up short.

 

He covered it with a grin and went to get ice cream; they shared it while he sat on the sofa in just his pants. He'd had a lot of strange experiences in his life, thrilling and terrifying and some defying rational explanation, but this one felt the most surreal, the most like something he'd never have pictured himself doing. He didn't let himself get philosophical about it.

 

He watched as Molly started to fall asleep; he felt wide awake. Sex seemed to have that effect on him, if only temporarily. He was coming to notice a pattern in alertness after actual sex that differed from masturbation; he wondered vaguely if it had to do with the more sedentary nature of masturbation compared to the athleticism of sex, or maybe the oxytocin added to the mix had some other effect on his brain. Might be worth researching sometime.

 

Part of him wanted to follow Molly to bed and curl around her, end the day with her pressed against him. He knew he wouldn't be able to sleep and he would probably disturb her rest; he also had no lack of things demanding his attention at the moment. He knew he had his work cut out for him in the coming weeks. He hoped he had weeks, he wasn't ready to face another Moriarty just yet. Now that he had more to lose, he had more that he needed to find ways of protecting.

 

He wished Molly a Happy New Year as she headed upstairs; her smile when she said it back was something soft and genuine and he had the thought that he hoped to start every new year seeing it. He couldn't let himself get lost down the road that would take him, though. He picked up his phone. Missed call from his Mum; he'd return that sometime before lunch tomorrow, but only after finding out from Mycroft exactly what he'd told her about everything. Mass texts from John, Mary, Lestrade and a half dozen other Yarders, and a few former clients that had obviously kept him in their address books; he read them all and there was nothing out of the ordinary about any of them, but he didn't delete them. _Everything_ was getting a backup from now on. There was also a text from Irene Adler.

 

**Happy New Year, Mr. Holmes. Now that you're back on terra firma, care for some dinner?**

 

He was so very tempted to respond 'no thank you, just ate, couldn't possibly,' though he knew he couldn't for Molly's sake. He might respect and admire The Woman, but trust? Never. She knew too many of his weak spots already, he wouldn't hand her an Achilles' heel on a silver platter.

 

 **Happy New Year, Ms. Adler. SH** , he replied simply.

 

A minute later his phone lit up; he hadn't re-enabled vibration or sound since purposely turning them off before his interlude with Molly.

 

**That took longer than I expected. Tied up?**

 

His lips twitched into a smile.

 

**Still not really my thing. SH**

 

He really shouldn't be flirting with her right after shagging Molly. It wasn't really flirting, though, more just a variation of a prescribed ritual.

 

**More's the pity.**

 

**So have you solved it yet?**

 

**No. But if you come across anything, do let me know. SH**

 

**And what can I expect as payment for any information I may happen across?**

 

**My continued silence on the trifling matter of your current state of not being dead. SH**

 

**You're no fun. I'll be in touch.**

 

Any other time he'd respond with a saucy 'looking forward to it' or something similar, but that didn't really feel right. If she did manage to get some useful information for him, he would worry about negotiating terms then.

 

He went through more of his emails, sorting and flagging and making mental notes of anything that stood out; he ate some of his cold chicken straight from the takeaway container and drank a glass of water before going back to it. Eventually his body told him he needed to sleep _now_ , but his brain was still pitching and rolling with thoughts of all he had to do. He dragged himself upstairs and did curl around Molly, then. She woke up enough to mutter something and snuggle against him; he had the terrible thought that she didn't realize who he was and thought him to be one of her past lovers. It was an idiot fear and he swallowed it down. He dropped a kiss to the crown of her head and willed his mind into a state of calm. It wasn't as hard as he'd been expecting.

 

*

 

He was tired. Tired of working, tired of thinking, tired of everyone telling him _slow down_ and _take a break_. None of them understood why he had to do this; there was _so much more_ at stake now. He didn't tell them, but he woke up from nightmares of dynamite vests on John-Mary-Mrs. Hudson, Moriarty feeding poisoned sweets to the baby, Mycroft in Magnussen's place... The worst ones, the ones that made him nauseous for days afterwards, were any of the ones with Molly. Her broken body on the slab like Irene, finding out it was somehow all her from the start and she'd been in league with Moriarty (her brother, her lover, sometimes both; that one was recurring), seeing her take centre stage in any number of atrocities he'd seen over his career (and even before). He dreamed of her pregnant, and only sometimes he was the father.

 

He stripped naked and crawled into bed, spooning up behind her like he did on nights like this, when he allowed himself the comfort and the escape. It was late and she had work in the morning, so sex most likely wasn't in the cards; he didn't even know if he had the energy to perform adequately anyway.

 

Ever since he'd had his little chat with Mycroft earlier that day, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was coming, stationary gears grinding to life in some distant machine. He was monitoring as much as he could, looking for even the most tenuous connections to Moriarty in everything that came his way, but he was simply coming up empty-handed on every front. It was frustrating beyond measure and he didn't know how much longer he'd have to keep taking every single case presented to him.

 

Some days he hated everyone and their petty little problems of their own making. Other days he didn't even want to get out of bed for the unfairness of it all, good people subjected to lives of torture and suffering and powerlessness. Sometimes it felt like too much responsibility, being the last hope for the hopeless.

 

He never breathed a word of those feelings to anyone, but he knew that Molly understood. Her job was being a voice for those who could no longer speak for themselves and she was well-versed in the end result of human cruelty. She dealt with it in her own way; sometimes she made a donation to a relevant charity when a case affected her, or signed a petition or wrote to her MP about an issue. She talked about it, too; she opened up to him about things that bothered her more than she ever had done before.

 

He didn't know how he felt about that. He'd never been anyone's confidante before, not really. He could manipulate anyone into giving up their innermost feelings and sometimes there was the odd lost soul in the same place at the same time that would pick him to unburden themselves to—usually over a fag in some public place late at night, that one small act of shared rebellion just enough of a connection to set them off—no one ever trusted him with their feelings like Molly did. Everyone else assumed he wouldn't care or wouldn't have any basis to relate, but Molly saw more in him than other people did.

 

He kissed the crown of her head and let his lips rest there. Holding her like that seemed like the ultimate indulgence sometimes. She was warm and solid and so very human; not just the idea and the ideal of a woman, but a living, breathing person. A reminder of his own humanity and that he was not above his own carnality, but not an unpleasant one.

 

The more time went on, the deeper they got into this thing, the more terrifying it became. They had a kind of routine; he would go to her flat, they would talk, sometimes they would fuck, they would sleep; it wasn't always like that, and those were the times he felt the most wrong-footed because he could almost delude himself into thinking they could have something approaching normal, even if it had become apparent over these last few months that they never could.

 

Seeing the young Watson family drove home just how alien, how far removed from the typical human experience he truly was. He loved them all, so much so that sometimes it was hard to breathe when his brain decided to taunt him with any number of scenarios about the eventual end of everything (one or all of them dying, him dying, a mistake that couldn't be rectified or words that couldn't be unsaid, the slow drift of time pulling them apart like plate tectonics). He couldn't fathom forming that kind of bond, a partnership, having a family, and then somehow losing it (and he _would_ lose it; nothing gold can stay). He couldn't imagine ever being good enough to deserve those things, didn't think he had it in himself to try to be worthy of them.

 

Sometimes he wished he could ask Mary how she became good, how she allowed herself to have the life she created with John. He'd seen the records and knew what she did, but he knew what kind of person she was, too. He wanted to know how she was able to not let her past overshadow her present. Maybe if he knew, he could do the same for himself and he could let go of just enough of the things that held him back to be able to be... Well, whatever he would develop into, with more avenues open to him.

 

Molly didn't surface into full wakefulness but her body settled more comfortably against him; she'd become so used to his presence that it registered as something natural and non-threatening. It filled him with warmth and a sense of melancholy at the same time. He wondered, not for the first time, if this was what normal people called love, or if this was even the kind of thing they felt for their partners.

 

He wished she would wake up enough just to acknowledge him, to ground him. He knew he should let her sleep, but he couldn't stop himself from shifting against her, deliberately bumping his knee against the back of her calf.

 

It had the desired effect; she inhaled sharply and twitched her leg away. He heard her wet her mouth and swallow as she moved her head to glance at the clock before she turned her face towards him and mumbled a sleepy, "You just get in?"

 

"Mm," he answered.

 

"Everything okay?" Conversational, not worried.

 

"Mhm. Long day, nothing interesting."

 

She hummed, arching against him in a stretch. It seemed almost like a moment from another life that wasn't theirs, but what could be. Odd, surreal, not helping his mood.

 

"Same," she said.

 

"Mm," he acknowledged. He didn't really want to talk; he was happy enough to have her attention focussed on him. He found he couldn't tell her what he was feeling, the foreboding and the anxious inevitability of the _something_ , whatever that thing was. Funny, that was how this all got started; Molly and her strange intuition. Now that they were more involved, he was even more aware of his desire to spare her the hardship of _knowing_ , to protect her.

 

She slid her hand over his and interlaced their fingers, tipped her face up and kissed his chin. It was the kind of kiss that could go either way, either just a simple show of affection in the dead of night or one that could turn into more if he let it. He was torn; he wanted that connection (always, sometimes to the point of distraction), but he didn't want to start something he couldn't finish.

 

 _To hell with it_ , he thought. He tilted his face down and caught her lips in a proper kiss. If something really _was_ coming, his own appointment in Samarra, he was going to take what he could while he could. She turned in his arms to face him and kissed him back; it was a sweet kiss, sensual. The way she always kissed him. Sometimes he wished she would kiss him outside of a sexual context, but that was out of bounds. Not that they'd ever discussed it.

 

They'd have to, one day. He'd wrongly assumed she'd be the one to bring it up, to define things. After all, she was the one with experience in these matters and she usually had no problems asserting herself. He thought maybe he wanted something deeper than friendship and more than just sex, but he couldn't ask for it without offering something in return; it wasn't a transaction, the kind of thing he could trade favours for, and he had very little emotional collateral to put up against a bigger future.

 

He couldn't figure her out. Sometimes he thought she wanted more, other times he thought she was on the cusp of ending it. He'd known her for five years and he'd never been able to get a solid read on her; he'd been wrong more times than he'd been right.

 

For now, though, none of that was relevant. He rolled her onto her back and slipped his thigh between hers, resting his weight on one elbow and forearm. He drew a fingertip along her hairline, the shell of her ear, taking a moment to just look at her; he hoped he wasn't giving away too much of himself with the tender touch or his expression. He was glad for the darkness of the room, for once. He leaned in to kiss her and she kissed back, already rather keen.

 

Her hands drew light patterns over his back and sides; she loved making him buck and shiver against her when she hit a sensitive spot. It was instinct to clamp down on the reaction, to never show any kind of weakness or vulnerability, no matter how small. Even after all the times they'd been intimate, he still felt a flare of something very old and self-protective when she teased him thus, even if he knew she enjoyed it because the sensations were physically pleasurable to him and not because she liked having a measure of power over him. Well, maybe there was some of that, but it wasn't malicious. She didn't want to find his weak spots just to exploit them.

 

His breath hitched and he grunted against her mouth when she ran her nails lightly over the small of his back; it was like that patch of skin was hot-wired directly to his testicles and any stimulation bypassed his brain entirely, the sensation indescribable past 'need to _fuck_ , need to _come_.' Apparently she didn't want to waste time on much foreplay tonight.

 

Hormones, yes, of course. Ovulating, or close enough to it. He wondered if he could coax her into multiple orgasms; it was always more likely to happen when she was fertile. He could have lifted that fact straight from some dry text on human sexuality, but the reality of it was so incredibly erotic. The way she'd respond once she was near her second orgasm was like making love to an entirely different woman—wilder, greedier, almost _possessed_ in more than one sense of the word.

 

He let her lead the kiss while he slid his hand under her shirt to tease her nipples, pressing his thigh more firmly between her legs. She rocked against him, stimulating herself; something about the thought of her using him to get herself off was such an incredible turn-on. He ground his cock against the hollow of her hip, his tiredness momentarily forgotten.

 

She made a little noise and pushed him away; she hooked her thumbs in the waistband of her pants and oh, yes, excellent idea. He rolled onto his side to give her room to undress, reaching out to pull her to himself as she tossed her shirt onto the floor. She rolled him onto his back and he reached for her breasts as she climbed astride him, cupping, covering before urging her to bend down so he could get his mouth on them.

 

He flattened his tongue against the underside of one nipple while sucking it into his mouth, pinching the other gently with this thumb and forefinger.

 

"Oh fuck," she said softly. Her hips shifted and she reached between their bodies to grip his cock; he thought at first she was going to have him right then by the way she stroked him to retract his foreskin and positioned him, but she surprised him by twisting her fist and letting go, pressing his cock down against his belly with her palm. She settled her weight on him, rocking her hips so his cock slid between her slick labia. She was so wet already; he gasped from the smooth glide, hot flesh against hot flesh, the tickle as her pubic hair brushed and caught his.

 

She started slow, long strokes up and down the length of him, ending with the deliberate press of her clitoris against his frenulum. _Corresponding sensitivities_ , he thought, giddy, hollowing his cheeks and flicking his tongue over the tip of her nipple.

 

She moaned and began to ride him in earnest; he couldn't maintain suction so he let go of her breast. She sat up, changing the angle to engulf the head of his cock at the end of each thrust of her hips; she planted her palms flat on his ribs for balance. His hands fell to her thighs, which he gripped and kneaded gently in time with her movements. He wanted so badly to thrust up against her, get the friction he needed, urge her forward until he could slip inside her, but there was something so... tawdry, filthy, _pornographic_ about watching her rub herself off against his cock.

 

Her head was tipped forward, her hair hanging loose around her shoulders, her chest; her eyes were closed and she bit her lips between her gasps and sighs and moans. He thought she might be getting close already, judging by the tension in her thighs and arse and the erratic way she began to move; the thought of her reaching orgasm just from this had him panting as a fresh wave of perspiration beaded on his chest and stomach.

 

"Oh fuck," she moaned again. "I'm gonna come, fuck, oh, oh, I'm coming," she practically howled, her fingers scrabbling against his ribs and her back arching.

 

He could feel it in the twitch of her thighs and the jump of her clitoris against his glans; she held herself rigid while it was most intense, then prolonged it with a few more jerky thrusts of her hips. His cock throbbed, a thin stream of precum welling from the slit to drip onto his belly. He wet his dry lips. Jesus Christ he wanted her.

 

Molly leaned forward, shivering at her oversensitivity as she slid against him. "Do you think you can pull out?" she asked, her lips hovering over his before taking his mouth in a sucking, searing kiss.

 

"Wh—what?" he asked stupidly, unable to parse her words when the head of his cock was millimetres from being in the right position for him to nudge it inside her.

 

"Can you pull out in time if you fuck me without a condom?" she said slowly, enunciating.

 

Oh. _Oh._

 

Could he? His body was still exhausted but he was fairly certain he _could_ finish, though he wasn't sure how long he would last. He was certainly better at identifying how close he was to orgasm at any given time while in the act, and he'd like to think he'd gained a small measure of control, but this... now... It was just about the most dangerous time for a misfire.

 

Of course, that was part of the allure; both the forbidden and the vague notion of the consequences.

 

"I—yes, I think so," he rushed out before reason reared its ugly head.

 

Molly kissed him again and shifted just so until he was aligned at the right angle; she pushed back against him and he pressed forward and Oh God, yes, there. Just the tip, but then they both moved again and he was sliding deeper into her and she was so wet and hot and snug around him. They hadn't done it like this since that morning before Christmas, months and months ago and the sense memory of it had dulled to the point where he'd forgotten just how good it was.

 

His hands moved to her hips and he pressed her down harder against him; nothing that would hurt her, but he wanted to feel more of her, now. He wanted to feel his balls pressed tight against her arse, wanted to be so deep inside her that she'd be helpless to do anything but let him fuck her.

 

She had other plans, of course, she always did; she began to fuck him, her hips twisting and rocking against him in her now-familiar rhythm. He palmed the round of her arse, leaned into her when she bent to kiss him again. He wanted her to come again, wanted to be inside her when she did, but he was afraid he wouldn't be able to pull out in time in that position.

 

"Molly," he murmured urgently against her mouth, "I don't trust myself like this."

 

She understood what he meant and stilled, pausing just a moment to kiss him like she simply couldn't get enough of him before moving. He rolled with her, intent on losing as little contact as possible. He repositioned himself once she was on her back, kneeling between her spread legs with one hand planted next to her head. Her legs folded around his hips as he gripped his cock, lining himself up and sinking into her almost immediately. He surged forward to kiss her and, after a few more sedate thrusts to acclimatize himself to the new position, he took up the same pace she'd set.

 

Molly wedged her hand between them; she was going to help herself along and he felt a shiver of anticipation run down his spine at the prospect of her second orgasm. He couldn't believe they were doing _this_ , that she was _letting_ him, that she wanted him like this.

 

He leaned down again to kiss her chin, her neck. "You feel so good," he said against her skin, the need to communicate verbally, not just with his body, almost overwhelming.

 

She moved her hand from his shoulder to the back of his neck, her fingers tangling in his sweat-damp hair. "I don't want you to pull out," she whispered into his ear, her voice high and breathy.

 

 _Fuck_ , he thought. Was that—was she saying...?

 

"Don't want to, either," he managed against her neck, forcing himself to slow down enough to _think_. "Really should, though."

 

"I know, I know, I just—" she broke off moaning and nipping his earlobe, her body still moving in same rhythm against him. "I want you, I want it, just this once, it should be fine."

 

She was trying to kill him.

 

"I want to, I really, really want to come inside you," he admitted, momentarily forgetting himself and nipping her neck hard enough to leave a mark. Christ, he was close.

 

Molly moaned, her fingers speeding up over her clitoris; he could tell by the way her thighs flexed and the way she felt tighter, hotter around him that she was on the edge.

 

"Fuck, do it, come inside me," she all but begged.

 

They were playing with fire and he couldn't think past the heavy ache in his balls.

 

He found her mouth and kissed her again so she wouldn't tear down the last of his resolve; she cried out and jerked against him as her orgasm overtook her.

 

It was too much—the sensations around his cock, the way she moved, her desire—and he knew he was about to come, too, his body barely giving enough warning for him to rear back and pull out before his hips were thrusting forward again, ejaculating over her hand, her pubic hair, the convex of her lower belly.

 

 _Christ_ , he thought, the most coherent he could be just then. _That was close, too close. Can't do that again_.

 

God did he want to, though, now that he'd got that far. He wanted to pin her down, fill her with so much of his come it leaked out around the base of his cock as he held her in place. Disgusting, violent primal urge.

 

He shook off that fucked-up thought as he leaned down to kiss her, Molly's hand stilling. "Sorry," he mumbled between kisses.

 

"Probably better," she murmured, forgiving, kissing him back. She used her sticky hand to gently stroke his softening cock, an oddly tender gesture. "It was still really hot."

 

He hummed in agreement, kissing her again. She cupped his bollocks before giving his cock one more very light squeeze; he was oversensitized but it felt good, prolonging his pleasure rather than spoiling it.

 

He lowered himself next to her and gave in to his own impulse to touch; usually after sex there was a vague routine of perfunctory afterglow kisses followed by the clean-up and then sleeping, nothing very intimate or exploratory. This was slightly new territory.

 

He looked down her body at the drops of semen scattered over her skin and in her pubic hair; he watched as she ran her fingers through one of the larger pools of it. He didn't know why, but he found the sight incredibly erotic. He didn't have any particular attachment or fetish when it came to his own semen, never really saw the appeal of ejaculating on things like so many men seemed to enjoy (if internet pornography was to be believed), but now, watching Molly, he was beginning to understand it. He kissed Molly again and lightly squeezed her breast before smoothing his hand over her side, her hip, her leg; he kneaded the sticky flesh of her inner thigh before moving his hand higher. He ran his fingers over the wet curls of her pubic hair and she shuddered when he brushed one of her still-engorged labia minora. He ran his fingertip experimentally along its scalloped edge, pulling a breathy _ah!_ from Molly.

 

In all the times they'd been together, he'd barely touched her _there_ , and never on purpose. Never with intent. Funny, he had no qualms about diving right into Janine's fanny when the situation dictated, but with Molly it felt so much more... personal. She'd never invited him to touch her there, she was always the one to rub herself off or arrange things so he could shove his cock in her. He wondered if he'd somehow come up short of one of her expectations by not—

 

No, that was stupid. He was creeping into that unpleasant, needy space he sometimes went to post-coitus, when he wanted nothing more from her than to be held and kissed and fed bland platitudes, when he could let himself pretend they had a different kind of relationship. He didn't want that right now, he wanted to take advantage of a rare opportunity presented to him. Was that so much to ask of his brain?

 

He traced the edge backwards, down to the mouth of her vagina, circling through the drying moisture there. He dared use the tip of his middle finger to breach her, just up the first knuckle; she was still so hot and wet inside that it sent a jolt to his cock. If only he were a few years younger or hadn't been up for the last twenty hours, he might have been able to do something more.

 

Molly kissed him with renewed passion; he wondered if she could come a third time just from being touched like this.

 

He was going to find out.

 

Molly brought her hand up to lay on his chest, the combined scent of their lovemaking stronger, almost cloying; it brushed up against something primal and made him want to turn her into a helpless, quivering mess in his arms as _he_ gave her pleasure. His emotions were all over the place, super-charged, but the undercurrent was the same: _more—Molly—closer_. He should probably pull back on them before he said something he couldn't unsay or crossed some kind of invisible line, but when he was _on_ like this, he needed to keep going. A fucking junkie. Almost literally, actually.

 

He pushed his finger into her a little more, not even to the second knuckle, then gently rubbed the inner wall; she certainly liked that when he did it with his penis, so it must be sensitive. She made a little noise of pleasure, so he did it again, drawing his finger out and up, just that first inch between her labia minora. He bent his fingertip and stroked, then dipped back inside her to repeat the motion.

 

She really seemed to like that, if her responses were any indication. Her kisses were harder, less coordinated and her fingers dug into his shoulder; seeing her like this was equal parts disconcerting and darkly thrilling and he'd examine that sometime later.

 

He penetrated her and withdrew a few more times, lengthening his strokes between her labia and deepening how far his finger went inside her each time. He made a mental note to explore the G-spot sometime, should she be amenable. He'd been doing a bit of reading.

 

He kept his movements slow, smooth, teasing; on his next stroke, he found her clitoris. She gasped and twitched when he brushed over it.

 

"Too much?" he murmured.

 

"No, just, um, a little more pressure, less— light," she answered quickly. She smiled against his mouth as she kissed him again and the whole mood of it changed, suddenly; he still wanted to make her come, but the edge of it softened. He kissed her more sweetly than he really intended to taking a moment to just enjoy her mouth before moving his fingers again. He made contact with her clitoris and this time pressed gently; she made a noise of approval and her hips moved in the rhythm she apparently liked.

 

He followed along, learning, occasionally improvising. Molly moaned and kissed and moved against him, her pleasure building more slowly than her first two orgasms. He could tell she was getting close again, though.

 

He was struck by how stunning she looked just then, her hair a mess and sticking to her neck, her face pink and sweaty, her expression an odd mix of pinched in pain and slack with pleasure. Molly, as very few had ever seen her. He still couldn't believe she let _him_ see her like this, let him do any of this to her.

 

"You're beautiful," he blurted, then followed it with a kiss so he wouldn't say anything else stupid or she couldn't laugh it off like she did any other compliment he'd ever tried to pay her, few and feeble as they were.

 

Her eyes flew wide and she made a noise against his mouth; her whole body stilled, seeming to relax for a split second before she just... convulsed. She curled in on herself, her legs clamping shut with the intensity of it; he could actually feel the result of her pelvic muscles contracting in the tiny movements against his fingertips. He withdrew his hand to rest lightly over her mound, wary of her oversensitivity.

 

She panted against his lips, her noises softer and less urgent as her orgasm began to subside. She pressed a weak, open-mouthed kiss to his bottom lip, tipped her face up to look at him.

 

The look in her eyes left him speechless; he wondered if it was mirrored in his own. It was something beyond acknowledgement of pleasure given, beyond fondness and familiarity. There was something covetous about it, but it was an offer of generosity a thousand times greater, too. He wasn't going to give it a name, he wasn't going to _presume_. It was hormones and sex heightening their emotions, that was all.

 

"Thank you," she said softly, her voice barely more than an exhale. She smiled, weak but content, and he didn't know if she meant _thank you for the compliment_ or _thank you for the three orgasms_. Probably a blanket statement.

 

He kissed her again and she rolled to press her body tight to his; they were both a sticky mess and he couldn't bring himself to care.

 

"I should get up to... things..." Molly sighed after a moment.

 

He made a noise of indifferent dismissal at the idea of getting up for any reason. He'd used up his normal post-coital alertness and he was slumping into exhaustion again; he only wanted to fall asleep with a warm, solid, naked Molly in his arms. Just a little bit more pretending that this thing they had was something else.

 

She hummed and settled more comfortably against him, and that was that, he supposed. She twitched her way into sleep almost immediately, a rare thing for her; it usually took her a bit to wind down and she usually partially disengaged from a cuddle before actually falling asleep. He was already in his own light doze when the sense of foreboding he'd felt earlier returned full force, dire enough to make his heart pound and his entire body tense.

 

He held Molly just the littlest bit tighter, knowing it wouldn't change anything of what was to come, but finding comfort in it all the same.

 

 


End file.
